


Sometimes It Just Works

by MellytheHun



Series: Tumblr Sterek Prompts [11]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Romance, Soulmates, Tumblr Prompt, fic prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 09:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11871105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: My own rendition ofraisesomehale's post:“Fic where, in a fit of post-break-up, drunken depression, stiles throws together a truly pathetic love spell (really, Lydia would be so unimpressed she’d probably disband their weekly magic lessons) in an attempt to find the perfect partner.But, like everything else in Stiles’ life (and as proof to how much joy the universe gets pulling one over on him) everything goes horribly wrong and instead of the feathery light, rose petal path he’d been expecting to appear and lead him to his true love, a half naked man with harlequin biceps and a beard that could rival most lumber jacks appears in his minimalist studio apartment looking grumpy and endearingly confused.Cue Stiles’ imminent freak out that includes shoving the man in his hall closet because “Oh my god, I manifested a burly mountain man out of thin air!!”When really, the spell had just transported Derek from whatever secluded cabin he’d been holed up in for the last few years right into Stiles’ life.”





	Sometimes It Just Works

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Heavy Drinking - nothing is described in detail, but the picture of Stiles having been drunk and over-drinking is clearly portrayed.

“No, no, no, no, no!”

Stiles paces his hall, rubbing at his scalp, trying to think of a quick reversal.

_It’s because I was thinking about that sex slave spell_ , Stiles chides himself, _I didn’t want to summon a sex slave. I mean, I did, but I didn’t mean to! I’m not even into beards! Unless… I am and I don’t know yet…_

Stiles’ interest is piqued when his brain supplies something like, _‘what if your magically conjured sex slave is aware of hidden kinks you don’t know you have?’_

He twists around to face the closed closet door, conspiracy glistening in his eyes.

Then he smacks his left cheek and chants to himself, “no, no. That is a bad Stiles.”

“Stiles?”

He jumps away from the closet door, fumbling for the steel bat he keeps by the foyer.

“Go back to where you came from, Burly Sex Man!”

The closet door knob turns and it opens very slowly. The man’s nose peaks out, nostrils flaring like he’s scenting the air, then the door opens more widely for him to step out.

He’s not wearing shoes, the bottoms of his jeans are dirty and tattered, his cotton t-shirt is threadbare and low-cut. His arms are huge, his hair dark and eyebrows thick. Very thick.

Stiles’ heart skips.

He knows those expressive eyebrows.

And he knows the technicolored irises below them.

“Derek?”

The man nods and in a voice that’s suddenly so familiar, he asks,

“How did you get me here?”

Stiles is still gripping his bat, fairly certain now that his magically conjured sex slave took on the appearance of the sexiest person he ever knew. It would make sense, after all.

“I made you out of magic,” Stiles drunkenly answers.

Burly Sex Slave Derek gives Stiles a strange look.

“Okay…”

He glances around the apartment, taking note of the five empty bottles of bourbon, the three empty pizza boxes and he scents the air again. He looks back to Stiles and says,

“I have a cat.”

Stiles cocks a brow.

“What?”

“I can’t stay here long,” Burly Sex Slave Derek explains, “my cat eats dinner in two hours and if I don’t set it out for her, she rips at my couch.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Stiles interrogates, “I _created_ you. From my _brain_. There is no cat.”

There is a quintessentially Derek eyebrow motion that makes Stiles’ stomach squirm nervously and then Burly Sex Slave Derek says,

“Okay. I’m going to take the bat from you now and you’re gonna sit this next round out, alright? I think you need it.”

Stiles swings his bat rapidly in front of him to keep his magical tempter away.

“No! Away! Get away, sex demon!”

“What the hell are you talking about, Stiles?”

Stiles is still too drunk to respond correctly, so he just swings his bat until his swing goes too wide and he gets the bat stuck in the wall behind him. He tugs listlessly at the handle for a few seconds and then slumps against the wall until he’s hiding his face in his knees.

“I can’t do anything right,” he mutters.

The man comes to stand in front of Stiles, though Stiles isn’t watching him, too busy crying into his plaid pajama pants about being useless. Before Stiles is fully aware of what’s happened, he’s being carried bridal style down the hall and into his bedroom. Burly Sex Slave Derek lays him down gently on his blankets, looking at him worriedly.

“I’m going to borrow your shower. I want you to deep breathe for a while, okay? You’re really, really drunk.”

Stiles mumbles something about not taking orders from lumberjacks, but he’s asleep before that thought completes itself.

He has a dream, but he doesn’t really remember it, even while it’s unraveling. There’s the smell of chlorine, there’s flashing lights in an elevator, the words “run,” and “go, go find him,” floating around. He feels a lot of love in his heart, like a swell fit to burst. And then he wakes up.

When he wakes up, Burly Sex Slave Derek is not as Burly. He has trimmed his beard down to very dark stubble. It allows Stiles to see the likeness in his face to Derek. The curvatures of his cheek bones and jaw, his full lips. Not-as-Burley Sex Slave Derek’s hair is still a bit wet from his shower. The collar of his shirt is sticking to him a bit where his chest is still wet. He’s a monument to every homoerotic fantasy Stiles has ever had.

“You feeling better?”

Stiles bobs his head a little and then immediately regrets it, touching his forehead with a limp, tired hand.

Then there’s another hand on his head. One with charcoal veins and a thumb rubbing back and forth over his exposed forehead.

Stiles goes cross-eyed staring up at the man’s forearm. It’s veins are throbbing a little, dark, dark blue or even black. Stiles’ heart gets caught up somewhere in his throat.

“Derek?” he asks disbelievingly.

Stiles could believe in his ability to conjure a sex slave, even a Derek-look-alike, but he knows he can’t create werewolves out of magic.

“Yeah,” Derek replies.

“You looked like a caveman,” Stiles says thoughtlessly, smiling in a goofy way up at Derek’s grimace.

“Hadn’t shaved in a while. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I thought I made you with sex magic,” Stiles yawns, already on the cusp of sleep again.

“Right,” Derek responds, looking simultaneously endeared and confused, “what were you trying to accomplish?”

“Elaine broke up with me,” Stiles frowns, shutting his eyes and internally worshipping the soothing petting of Derek’s hand, “Got drunk and sad and threw together a shitty spell to try to lead me to my soulmate. No yellow brick road showed up, then there was a sexy caveman and I panicked.”

“Uh-huh,” Derek offers conversationally, “Okay. Get some more rest. You need it.”

“Mm,” Stiles agrees and then he drifts back to sleep.

He dreams, he’s sure. But he only remembers blackness. Endless blackness. He’s not sure he exists physically in his dream. He feels spread out like smoke, like rays of light spread out over the cosmos, but he sees nothing. It isn’t warm, it isn’t cold. And there’s a voice saying, _“you need me to survive, which is why you are not letting me go.”_

He wakes up from a dropping sensation.

He sits up in bed, groans at the ache that’s reverberating through his entire body and considers trying to go back to sleep. He eventually picks himself up out of bed and goes looking for water, though.

When he walks into the living room, Derek is napping on his couch. His huge, muscular arms are crossed over his big chest, his face is young and lax in sleep. He doesn’t snore at all. He looks still as a statue, his skin glowing in the early morning light coming through Stiles’ glass sliding doors to the patio.

Stiles approaches the couch slowly, coming to crouch in front of Derek’s sleeping form. He can tell the place has been straightened up. The bottles are nowhere to be seen, the pizza boxes have left a distinct fake-cheese smell in the living area, but they seem to have been tossed. Things look neat again.

He stretches his arm out slowly, touching Derek’s arm gingerly, like he might _‘puff’_ and vanish. When it’s clear that Derek’s corporeal body isn’t going to magically dissipate before his eyes, he rests his open palm against the round of Derek’s shoulder. He rubs his thumb there, watching Derek’s eyes open gradually in the pale morning light.

“Hey,” Stiles whispers.

“Hi,” Derek whispers back.

What was strange and confusing the night before is crystal clear in the morning. He’s looking at Derek and seeing the rest of his life.

When he dated in college, it was fun, it was silly. When things got too serious, he bailed. And dating as a young adult, he wants the connections he consciously outran as a teen, but he can’t make them. Every time he ignored an annoying trait, every time he forgave a seemingly unimportant error, it just felt like he was forcing it. Like shoving an incorrect puzzle piece into an empty space and it doesn’t belong, it isn’t right, but he can’t find another. Like he was MacGyver-ing a relationship together out of pieces that looked similar to love, but weren’t quite right.

He’s looking at Derek and it works. It fits. It’s right and he feels it in his bones, in his _soul_ , in the nameless, faceless, voiceless thing that unites him and Derek. He feels it in the magic that brought Derek back to him, back where he belongs.

“Your cat need you?”

“Yeah,” Derek replies, groggy and raspy with sleep, “She’s sort of an asshole.”

Stiles smirks, then clears his throat before asking gently, “do you think… uhm, would it be alright if I came with you? Check out your cave digs?”

Derek rolls his eyes, “I’m not living in a cave.”

_Pack your cat and your shit and move in with me, I didn’t realize how much I hated not having you here until I saw you in the frame of my life and now I can’t let you go. I am not letting you go._

“I’m thinking if I tag along, I might be able to talk you into moving back into society maybe,” Stiles elaborates, “You can wear shoes and buy new shirts and, like… hang out with me. It could be very cool.”

Derek contemplates him for a long few moments. His eyes are focused on Stiles’ and Stiles can somehow tell that Derek knows exactly what’s happening in his head.

“I’d have nowhere to stay here.”

“You could stay with me.”

Derek nods, like he knew that would be Stiles’ answer and that thought makes Stiles nervous. Like he’s being tested, like Derek is watching to see if Stiles is looking to capture him like a feral animal and keep him in a cage.

“You could help us kill monsters sometimes too. We’ve missed that brute strength element in our rag-tag Pack,” Stiles offers, half-jokingly.

Derek sits up and Stiles’ heart is hammering away. Derek’s smile is shy, like it’s just starting to bud and bloom in the grapefruit colored sun rays moving through the room. He gazes at Stiles, still and quiet, even his breath is muted.

Then he nods.

And Stiles is swept up in a gust of energy hitting him sideways, ready to take on the world. His face breaks into a grin and his hands flutter around uselessly for a few minutes until he says, “oh man, okay - okay, I’m gonna hop in the shower, put on some pants and we’ll get out of here, okay?”

He stands up and on his way to the bathroom, he notices his steel bat lodged in the wall.

“…I have a bat in my wall.”

“Mm,” Derek says without further explanation.

Stiles doesn’t recall how it got there, but he’s sure it’s his own drunken fault, so he decides to hide the hole with a framed picture at some point. It’s a weird place in the wall to decide to hang a picture, but whatever. It’ll work.

It’ll work.


End file.
